Death Series 08 - Death Blinks

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  He slaps his palm into Pax's.

  Pax jerks him to a standing position. Jeff winces, flexing his newly healed digits. “Good to be back.” He looks around. “Hell—if I've got our bearing correct, we're on top of the detection grid.”

  “Sorry,” Sophie says, voice contrite.

  He waves that away. “It's fine, had a bunch of brain-loving zombies up our ass.” He looks at Mitchell and Clyde. “No offense.”

  Mitchell shrugs. “Clearly, this is a case of ‘it is what it is.’”

  Jeff looks to Caleb. “Get me up to speed, Hart.”

  I snuff my smoke out on the bottom of my boot and flick the butt. “The Reader's Digest version, Caleb.”

  “Right, Gramps.” Caleb looks at Jeff. “Basically, Pax blinked us out of our earth then accidentally, we went to a world full of blinkers, but apparently they don't do parallel worlds. But actual, primary earths.”

  “They call them sectors—there's thirteen. And they tell us we're ʻthrees,ʼ” John adds.

  I nod, swirl my hand, notice my second cig is a dead butt, and snuff it out.

  “Thirteen earths?” Jonesy asks, frowning.

  “Yeah,” Pax replies.

  “All I know is I could raise the dead on that earth, and it sucked balls. Plus, their hospitality also blows. Big time.” Jonesy spreads his hands. “I want to torch the bad guys, not be a corpse-monger.”

  Caleb, Tiff, and Pax shoot him a dirty look.

  “Whatever!” Jonesy slaps his thighs, muttering something about beer and football.

  “Anyway,” Caleb says, gifting Jonesy a final, dark look, “we barely escaped the mess of that world, and Pax blinked us back here, right into Thompson's fun and games.”

  “Dad,” Pax says reproachfully.

  “Dad is not saying it's your fault,” Jade comments.

  Pax starts copping an attitude, and I sigh. “I had to get us out of our world, Mom.” He crosses his arms, planting his legs wide, a deep furrow between his eyes.

  Deedie looks at Pax. “Because of the undead you pulled from this world,” she points out.

  He scowls at her.

  Damn kids.

  Deedie lifts a shoulder. “Listen, you know I love you, Pax, but when George and his family suddenly showed up—unsanctioned dead—the cops were called.”

  Pax's eyes narrow on his sister. “And don't forget loverboy.” He jerks his jaw toward Mitch. “He had to come back, too. They definitely noticed him.”

  Mitchell's bright eyes become slits of blue flame. “You know, I'm about sick of you. If it weren't for me, Deegan would be dead. She summoned me because she was against the wall, Hart. Not because I would be her lover. She's seventeen, for God's sake.”

  Deegan's exhale is disgusted.

  “And like you care about that?” Pax asks in a low voice.

  Mitch's face tightens down like a drum. “Fuck yes, I care. I'm her zombie. You know exactly how much I care, you spoiled, fat-headed asshole.”

  Deegan latches on to the back of Mitch's shirt. As though that would keep the big fella contained. She rests her forehead against his back, and he stills.

  “Boys,” I say in warning, wishing for another smoke and figuring I'll have to forgo that pleasure in lieu of attitude adjusting.

  It always comes back to that.

  “Can you blink us back to earth—our earth?” Jade asks Pax, trying like hell to ignore the testosterone bomb ready to explode.

  Pax's eyes move from Mitch to his mom's. “I can.” He sounds suspicious of her point.

  I'm relieved by his reply. I'm ready to split. Regardless of the girlsʼ mixed feelings of fertility, I share the opinion that they can't get pregnant if they're dead.

  “Can you blink us inner-world?” Tiff asks suddenly.

  Pax's exhale is a raw breath. “Not with perfect accuracy,” he admits.

  So it's all or nothing for Pax.

  We look at Sophie. “I've used my ability one time.”

  Yeah, and here we stand on the grid.

  Jeff drags a hand over his skull several times, finally saying, “Listen, the evil that we know and all that. My counterpart of this world is trying to use me to identify all paranormals.” He faces Pax. “He wants someone who can blink from here. His very own Pax. If he finds that—he and Clement Thompson's brat can travel to all the parallels and corrupt those. He will. We need to get me the hell out of here. And you.” He looks at each woman, his eyes landing last on Tiff. “Sorry, ladies—the safety of all these parallel worlds is up to us. We get me out of here and back to our home world. It's more important than fertility, babies—any of that.” His eyes remain on Tiff.

  She shifts her weight, shooting daggers with her eyes. “I'm not stupid, Parker.”

  “Oh… I'm aware.” Jeff smirks.

  “But you're blinded by the potential to have children that this world offers, Tiffany,” John says.

  I knot my hands in defeat, waiting this out.

  “Yeah,” she says, small fists at her sides. “I am. So let's get out of here before I can think about what I'm gonna lose by going.”

  “It's daytime. The grid is not activated during that time,” Kim says into the weighted silence.

  “Before I blinked, I saw it, though,” Deedie says, sounding doubtful.

  I can't see the grid. I'll take the kidsʼ word for it. There's been entirely too many coincidences.

  I've never been a big believer in those.

  “We're going to encounter some unpredictable things when we return,” Caleb says, then suddenly, his face lifts—eyes tight. “Onyx.”

  “He's okay,” Deedie says. “I left his doggie door open.”

  Caleb's shoulders slump in clear relief. “Thank God. I don't think he'd welcome the Sanction cops into our humble abode.”

  Jade's shoulders begin to shake with her silent sobs. Can't say I blame her. I wouldn't want the SPs stomping through my home, either.

  Caleb hugs her, and she buries her face in his chest.

  Pax gives an abrupt chuckle. “No way he hung around the house. Onyx is long gone by now—in Scenic Cemetery.”

  The group breathes easier. Everyone loves that half-dead dog. He's Caleb's, but he's also the entire gang's, in a strange way.

  Of course, he might be a little worse for wear now because Caleb is here, not there, helping Onyx stay “alive” with his AftD. He seems to perk up around cemeteries, though. I brighten. It's a small silver lining, but I'll take anything positive at the moment.

  Tiff kicks a lone pebble that's buried in the weeds of wherever Sophie set us down.

  The lights of this Kent remain dark. The city stretches below us, and I can just make out the faint glimmer of bots moving to and fro in the weak, early morning light.

  Tools.

  Tiff's face scrunches pensively. “And my brother? And Archer?”

  Pax's face flames. “I dropped them.” His voice is low.

  She nods quickly. “I haven't had a minute to ask. I was just freaking grateful they weren't here for this mess, too. Besides, Bry would want to play hero and get his ass beat, as usual.”

  Jonesy snickers.

  That Weller kid does like to use his face like a battering ram. Every time.

  Tiff glares at Jones. “Shut it, Jonesy.”

  “Ah, come on, Tiff. Your brother's the tank, baby. If he was here, he'd be taking the most damage for the cause. Ya know it.”

  Her inhale warbles. “I know.” She raises her face to the sunlight. “And I don't want him here. But him and Archer not being here? Where are they?”

  “Typically, in a drop, Pax would leave people where the blink originated from,” John announces.

  Hmmm. A memory of getting dropped from an airplane over the Gulf surfaces. I let the thought go. Little too macabre.

  “Oh my God, they're in Sanction Police custody?” Sophie asks, looking between Pax and Tiff.

  Probably.

  “Not for certain. I mean, they're not the ones who brought
zombies from a parallel plane.” Deedie tries for that small hope.

  Clyde grunts.

  All heads turn. He can't talk anymore. Mouth has gone too soft.

  “Clyde,” Caleb says in a voice shut down to a single syllable of regret.

  Clyde raises his arm, closing the soft fingers of his hand, and a squishing sound erupts from the gesture.

  We all wince.

  “He's too far gone. Sure, Caleb can repair Clyde when we return home, but with blinking, I don't know if degrading mass is reshaped if it's not one hundred percent living tissue. We're taking chances, Caleb,” Jeff states.

  Caleb cups his chin, mental wheels spinning. “Pax?”

  “I can get everyone back, but we're just falling into the SP's laps.”

  Caleb drops his hand, shaking his head once. “Doesn't matter. We'll have to take our chances back home.”

  A trick of light causes Jeffrey's eyes to appear almost green, though I know they are a perfect combination of green and brown, and he picks up the thread of conversation where Caleb left off. “If the Thompsons get their hands on me, they'll torture me into naming every human being for the rest of my natural life. No paranormal will be safe. And it's only a matter of time before the Zondoraes of this world perfect regeneration into a virtual fountain of youth like they have on our earth. My future immortality would be ruled by marking paranormals.”

  Sophie's eyes are wide. “Let's take our chances.” Tears stream down her face.

  And Tiff's.

  Deedie and Jade are tear-free. But Jade's had children, and Deedie's probably too young to understand the loss of what she's never had. Zero point of reference.

  Kim doesn't cry because kids aren't revered in this world. On her earth, they keep only the infants who might be of use later, while killing everyone else.

  I nod, standing next to Pax. I take his hand. He squeezes it. Not like a sissy. But like an agreement between men.

  Men don't always need to speak, to be heard.

  A familiar heat flares. Then stops.

  “Shit,” Pax says, with real fear threading through his voice.

  I jerk my head in his direction, lasering my stare at him. “What?” We've worked up to this point, to face the danger we know rather than let Thompson and crew get their grubby hands on our family and friends. Now what?

  “It's daytime.”

  Dread floods through me. Right. Pax can't blink during the day. The second eyelid is ruined by natural light—doesn't even like artificial light much.

  A whistling sound zooms pass me as the first dart hits Pax's shoulder, and I jump in my skin. I duck, throwing my hands above my head. “What in the blue blazes!”

  Jeff's sharp eyes turn to mine like a startled hawk. “Fuck me,” he breathes.

  Yessiree.

  Darts like arrows arc above us, honing in on us like heat-seeking missiles.

  Mitch encircles Deedie with his strong arms, and my great-granddaughter clenches her eyes shut. “I can try,” Mitch volunteers, though I don't think anyone but Deedie and I hear him.

  Pax staggers toward Deedie, grabs Mitch's arms, and begins to slide down his body, grabbing at his jeans like the side of a boat while drowning. “Tranq,” he manages to whisper.

  “Shit,” Mitch says, easily holding Pax up with one hand.

  More darts fall, sinking into our group.

  That coward Brad. A stinger glances off the top of my ear, and I rush to grab Pax.

  Everyone begins falling like dominoes around us.

  “Blink, Mitch,” Pax whispers, dried saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth, eyelids hooding.

  Mitch shifts, moving his back into the line of fire, and five more darts twang into his broad back. His grin spreads, and I know the expression for what it is.

  The tranquilizers won't work on him. My gaze sweeps over the gang.

  Clyde meets my eyes, and I see the darts sink into the mess of his body then fall out without purchase.

  He knows, too.

  Our pair of zombies are the last hope.

  “It's daytime,” Mitch says with a franticness that's not his norm as Brad Thompson stomps toward us with our end in his gaze.

  Bots and the dead of this world converge around everyone.

  “Do it,” Pax says, then slumps into unconsciousness.

  Mitch wraps my great-grandson's wrist in the unforgiving hold of the undead.

  His second eyelid descends, immediately beginning to smolder on top of his glacial-blue eyeball.

  Deedie mewls like a tortured kitten, and I take my hand from Pax and grab ahold of her shoulder.

  My gaze travels our fading group, and everyone's linked together like a barrel of monkeys.

  Jonesy's got his arm stiff above him with his middle finger extended.

  That drops as he loses consciousness. Gotta love his grit.

  Mitch blinks. God love him. He's a zombie and doesn't feel pain—so he blinks us the hell out of this place.

  Brad's image wavers like looking through rushing water, along with the open-mouthed screaming bots and fleshy zombie team.

  The smell of rot and decay blur, the sound of the mechanical sirens quiet.

  The edges of this world are erased, like something seen through a glass, darkly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Deegan

  I breathe deeply. Again. Let it out.

  And smell. Exhaust (like Gramps's garage).

  Refuse.

  Humanity.

  My eyelids flutter apart, and I feel strong arms bind me to a muscular body. I move to sit up, and those arms tighten around me.

  “Mitchell,” I say.

  “Hmm,” he says against my temple. I smell death and the life I gave him swell, and it eases me.

  “Mitchell,” I say more urgently, my eyes beginning to take in our surroundings. I don't recognize anything.

  There are no bots, and that should make me relieved. I do know I'm sitting in the middle of a heavily treed neighborhood in my hometown of Kent, Washington. I recognize it.

  There should also be relief in that realization.

  But the cars cruising past at about thirty miles per hour on the ground have my full, terrified attention.

  Again, I'm reminded that I loved history before I graduated high school just a month ago. I don't have any memory of fossil fuel and only recognize its scent because of Gramps's ancient car, but its not seen mainstream use in at least two decades. There is no point of reference for me.

  But I'll just hazard a guess, as Dad would say.

  Somehow, Mitch blinked. So that means that somewhere in my makeup, I can also blink.

  And he didn't blink to a where. He blinked to a when.

  Mitch stands, pulling me up with him. “What in the hell is this?” his voice is quiet. Tight.

  I turn my attention in the direction he's looking.

  Antique cars begin to slow, clearly noticing a bunch of people rolling around on cement sidewalks.

  Gramps hops to his feet, looking more spry than a guy that old should look. But his regeneration continues, and I can tell by the expression on his face that he knows when we are. His features go from neutral to troubled in a flash.

  Everyone is waking up from the shock of landing, and the cars that drive by hold curious drivers and passengers, checking out the dozen people lying on a sidewalk of what appears to be a quiet neighborhood at—what time is it? I look to the sky and notice the sun is low in a distant horizon. Sunset is a promise.

  Twilight is near.

  Pax will be able to blink us out of here. I'm so relieved by the thought that Pax can fix us from here that I don't think about why we ended up in this time. Or how.

  Pax doesn't blink us to a timeline other than the one we live in. The present.

  “That's my house. I mean, my folksʼ house.” Mitchell's disbelief rides his voice.

  What?

  Suddenly, a big guy exits the house we're looking at and strides to a souped-up, old-fashio
ned-looking hot rod.

  “Nice car,” Gramps says, rocking back on his heels.

  The hell with the car. I can't take my eyes off the dude that's about ready to get behind the wheel.

  Oh God.

  A slightly younger Mitchell stabs a key into the car door then jerks the handle and pops inside. His hands are busy now with stuff like inserting a key into an old-fashioned ignition, adjusting the wheel, and general tasks of starting an old-style car.

  I gape at the scene.

  “Let's make ourselves scarce,” Gramps says in his puzzling way, and we all move silently backward into a small greenbelt, congregating together and thanking everything holy that the Mitchell of now didn't notice all of us conspicuously loitering a block from his house.

  As though Mitchell heard our thoughts, he says softly, “I was distracted.”

  I turn to look at him. He avoids looking at me.

  “Why?” I search his face, but my eyes are pulled in the direction of the other Mitchell as his car zooms past. The low purr of the gas-guzzling auto momentarily destroys all potential conversation.

  He takes a breath like he's starving for air. “Because I was trying to remember what everyone wanted on their pizza, Deegan.” His voice is bald, empty like a scooped out husk.

  Oh my God.

  Everyone stares at Mitchell.

  “This is the day you murdered those men?” Dad asks from across the small copse of trees. His voice carries perfectly. The onlookers are long gone.

  Mitchell nods. “It's 2010. I don't know how…” His hands fist.

  “Because as a zombie, you'll remember the most traumatic event in your life,” Dad says with irrefutable logic.

  “Caleb,” Mom says, putting her hand on Dad's arm.

  “It's true. It's the way the dead work. How they process. We know more now than when I was a kid, and road kill would follow me around. There's a purpose to their thoughts.”

  Being burnt alive by enemies in a foreign country wasn't the biggest. That wasn't the most traumatic thing for Mitchell.

  No. Not being here to protect his sister and brother was the most traumatic event.

  “I can stop this.” Mitchell's eyes become fervent. Hostile. The same eyes I imagine he had when he became a murderer on this day.

  “How is this fucking possible?” Pax asks. “I never blink to another time. I didn't even know it was possible.”